


this, and all our other lifetimes

by wordstruck



Series: έρως και αγάπη [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art Conservator Yuuri, Chris Giacometti (mentioned), M/M, Magical Realism, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Stephane Lambiel (guest)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 09:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15506757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: By the far wall, sitting in the easel, sits the painting that draws him in again and again.έρως και αγάπη;Eros and Agape. Yuuri still vividly remembers working on it, painstakingly restoring the painting inch by square inch. He can picture it in perfect detail, even with his eyes closed – the image of a man, the line of a naked back, the sheet falling from his arms to drape around him. The eyes, looking somewhere just out of frame. He’d spent weeks looking at the painting, poring over it in meticulous detail, and it still makes his breath catch.It still feels intimate, a little intrusive. Like he’s chanced upon a private moment not meant to be seen by anyone else’s eyes.But he still feels the slow-blooming longing that had crept between his ribs, settled in his lungs. He still remembers the dreams.





	this, and all our other lifetimes

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously a fic zine-exclusive sequel to _i'll love you in the morning_ , but I'm uploading this to AO3 now as well so that everyone who read the prequel can see how the story goes ^ ^ It's just a short follow-up, but sweet; I've had this scene in mind ever since I wrote the first part.
> 
> Thank you as always to [Moose](https://twitter.com/butleronduty), whose art inspired this fic!

* * *

 

The town of Martigny is small, but bright.

Yuuri walks from the hostel he’s staying at to the nearby coffee shop, scarf bundled around his face against the chill. The November morning is crisp but still pleasant; so different from the biting chill of the city he calls home. It’s a busy town, and Yuuri finds himself wistfully thinking of following the roads to the next ones, and further out. Take the train to France, to Chamonix and then keep going.

Idle wishes, but Yuuri’s always been a dreamer.

From the coffee shop, he heads to the studio by the small gallery of his host. Stephane Lambiel is as pleasant as Chris has made him out to be, soft-spoken but cheerful, with eyes well-worn from laughter. He’d invited Chris and Yuuri over to attend the opening of his gallery, and while Chris had had to decline, he’d encouraged Yuuri to go.

“Take a vacation,” he’d said, tapping Yuuri on the cheek. “You’ve been working too much, and it’s right in time for your birthday.”

And so Yuuri had been packed off to Martigny after he’d finished his last art restoration project. Mila had whisked away the painting almost as soon as it had dried, and then Phichit had helped him pack, and now here he was.

But Yuuri has to admit, he doesn’t regret coming.

Stephane has told him time and time again to simply let himself in, but Yuuri still knocks before unlocking the studio door and calls out as he walks in. Neither Stephane nor his staff are around, so Yuuri heads directly to the storage area. It comforts him to be there, surrounded by art and the smell of paint.

They’ll be setting up this afternoon, readying for the opening day tomorrow. The anticipation thrums under Yuuri’s skin.

He sets his almost-empty cup on the table near the door, and walks inside.

By the far wall, sitting in the easel, sits the painting that draws him in again and again.

 _έρως και αγάπη_ ; Eros and Agape. Yuuri still vividly remembers working on it, painstakingly restoring the painting inch by square inch. He can picture it in perfect detail, even with his eyes closed – the image of a man, the line of a naked back, the sheet falling from his arms to drape around him. The eyes, looking somewhere just out of frame. He’d spent weeks looking at the painting, poring over it in meticulous detail, and it still makes his breath catch.

It still feels intimate, a little intrusive. Like he’s chanced upon a private moment not meant to be seen by anyone else’s eyes.

But he still feels the slow-blooming longing that had crept between his ribs, settled in his lungs. He still remembers the dreams.

In the nights while he’d worked on the painting, like echoes. Yuuri remembers dreaming of light laughter, of flashes of silver and high cheekbones. A low, sweet voice in his ear. Eyes like the shallow ocean.

He can still hear the words murmured into his ear, achingly familiar, like he’s heard them countless times before. _Here you are_ , and _come to bed with me._ And his name, soft and warm. _Yuuri_.

He’s only dreamed of Victor in bits and pieces since, but they linger.

(The dreams still feel like memories, like they belong to him. Victor says Yuuri’s name like he’s said it over and over, like something sweet.)

Yuuri looks at the painting. His fingers hover just over where skin becomes hidden by fabric. He breathes into empty spaces and remembers.

The main door to the studio opens, breaking the silence with a burst of chatter and city sounds. Yuuri withdraws his hand, feeling like he’s been caught even if he’s not doing anything wrong.

Stephane and his staff greet him warmly, ask him if he’s had a pleasant morning. Yuuri smiles, and answers their queries, and takes his seat at the table as Stephane begins to brief them on the procedure for setting up the exhibit.

He doesn’t look back at the painting.

 

While his job as an art conservator would allow him all the access he might want, Yuuri has never been one to visit the exhibits of paintings he’s worked on. Partly, of course, because many of them move on to galleries far from their workplace; but also because he prefers to view art in quieter spaces, where he can study the paintings by himself and learn their stories. So he finds himself a little overwhelmed by all the people in the gallery, all the different voices in a language unfamiliar. Yuuri hovers by the entrance, watching the people walk from painting to painting.

He wonders what they see in each work, what they feel as they look at the pieces on the wall.

Stephane comes to find him after a few hours.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect this many people,” he says with a laugh. “But it’s a good surprise.”

“You did a good job organizing this,” Yuuri points out, smiling.

“ _We_ did,” Stephane corrects him. “You really didn’t have to help, you know. This is supposed to be your vacation.”

Yuuri shrugs, cheeks flushing slightly. “I wanted to.”

Stephane shakes his head, but lets it slide. His expression softens into something more open and sincere. “I can’t thank you enough for your work on Eros and Agape. I don’t know what it is about the painting, but, just—”

He cuts off, frowning. Yuuri laughs lightly and glances at where the painting sits on the righthand wall. “It’s all right,” he says, as the sweet, familiar ache unfurls in his chest. “I understand.”

When he turns back to Stephane, he finds the man is looking at him curiously. But Stephane doesn’t ask, and they move on to talk about the other pieces, until Yuuri excuses himself for the day.

When he goes to bed that night, tired and satisfied, he dreams.

 

He’s in a studio, sun-warm and bright. There’s an empty easel in the middle of the room, the parts of the unassembled canvas on the table beside it. Yuuri runs his hands over the wood, the canvas, the scattered paints and brushes. The sketchbook sitting open to a blank page, pencil at the ready.

A voice from behind him, light and teasing. _Where do you want me?_

Yuuri turns to see Victor leaning against the door frame, lips curved in a provocative smirk. It softens into something fonder when their eyes meet. He’s dressed simply, in just a tunic, bare legs endless under the hem.

He’s breathtaking.

Yuuri pulls over a stool, takes the sketchbook in hand. He smiles.

_Just like this._

 

Yuuri returns to the gallery again the next morning, but only for a short while. He wanders from there to the Pierre Gianadda, much larger than Stephane’s gallery. He browses inside for a while, ends up in the gardens outside. From a bench by a peculiar statue, he passes the time people-watching and breathing through the static in his lungs.

When the restlessness under his skin grows, he gets up. Yuuri wanders the streets down to the paths by the Danse, until he ends up by the Pont de la Batiaz. The river beneath him is sluggish in the winter.

The urge to return to the gallery creeps up his spine. It’s early afternoon yet; he has time.

He goes back to his hostel instead.

 

That night, he does not dream.

 

The next day, Yuuri takes the Mont-Blanc express all the way to St. Gervais-Le Fayet. The view from the train is stunning, and Yuuri finds himself more than a little dazed at the end of the day. Stephane offers to take him Chateau de Chillon after, and Yuuri’s days slowly fill up.

He avoids returning to the gallery, the painting. The ache sits in his bones, curls around his heart.

He cannot avoid dreaming.

 

Victor lies beside him on the bed, blanket pushed low over his hips. His hair has fallen over his eyes, and one hand is curled over the sheets where it had fallen, slipping from where Victor had placed it on Yuuri in his sleep. Yuuri watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest and this he could create a thousand paintings, but none would ever come close.

His own hand is set between them. If he were to move it, just a little, he could touch Victor. Like this, in these dreams, it feels like he’s already learned Victor’s skin, the curves and lines of his body.

Yuuri looks at the sun dappling across the expanse of Victor’s back, at how it paints his hair like starlight.

 

The sun in Martigny streams through the windows of the hostel room, and he wakes up.

 

Three days before Yuuri leaves the country, he revisits the gallery.

His intention is to drop by the studio, actually, ask if Stephane or any of his staff need any help. But his steps take him past the studio doors, down the block and to the repurposed building Stephane has transformed into the home of his art collection. This early in the morning, it’s still quiet; the main room of the gallery is mostly empty. Yuuri wanders inside and looks around.

 

There is silver in his peripheral vision.

There is static, a rush of something overwhelming in his chest.

Yuuri stands in the middle of the wide, bright room and looks at the man sitting on the bench, in front of the painting that had arrested his heart.

Each step forward feels like crossing a chasm.

There is a name that sits on the tip of his tongue, like the taste of something well-loved.

The man turns at the sound of footsteps, and when their eyes meet, Yuuri feels his breath catch in his throat.

Victor’s smile is painfully, wonderfully familiar and soft as he looks at Yuuri across the empty space between them.

“There you are, Yuuri,” he says, and his voice speaks of a love well-worn and kept close. “I’ve been looking for you.”

 

This time, Yuuri does reach out, and Victor’s touch is as he has dreamed, as he remembers.

This time, when Victor leans in, it is real.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come say hi on social media – I'm on Twitter as [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and Tumblr as [okwtr](https://okwtr.tumblr.com). You can check there for ways to support my writing!


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